


Match

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Cunnilingus, Dominance, F/M, Female Thranduil, Femdom, Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Queen Thranduil enjoys her new gift.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Match

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Alpha female Thranduil and omega male Bard.” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25509890#t25509890).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She isn’t particularly interested in mortals.

She’s had them before, of course, a few trinkets here and there to play with, but none have ever really _pleased_ her, not as an elf can. Yet she’s sampled all those in her kingdom that she might have interest in—and even some of Elrond’s, though she finds the lord himself far too lenient for her tastes—and it would be rude to not at least view the gift the Master’s offered her. Now that Dale is reclaimed, thanks largely to Thranduil’s army of elves and timely aid, the Master of the town parades in a string of mortal men for her to look at.

All of them are too filthy for the splendor of her tent. In a day’s time, she plans to ride back to her halls on the edge of the Greenwood, most likely without a mortal pet to weigh her down. Still, she eyes the omegas he brings her, finding their combined scent almost too unpleasantly pungent to bear. She supposes she must at least be grateful that the Master himself has stopped his pathetic attempts to barter a union; politically sound or not, he and his slimy assistant are severely below her standards.

Most of the men in Dale are, though she stops her slow stroll as she reaches the end of the line. Her nostrils flare once, drinking in the scent of possibility—this one is as sorely in need of a bath as the rest of them, but beneath that, his musk is somewhat... alluring.

He’s handsome, too. Ignoring the other six offers, Thranduil’s eyes rake down the seventh sacrifice. He’s dressed in rags, but his build is full, no doubt chiseled in taut muscles from long, hard labour. His dark hair nearly reaches his shoulders, hanging scraggly down the pretty lines of his face, the ends pulled back and tied in a little knot behind his skull. He has a mustache and a patch of stubble beneath his chin, more short hairs snaking up his jaw. Usually, Thranduil isn’t one for facial hair. But this man is certainly striking, and when his eyes catch hers, they’re instantly locked.

A fire sparks in Thranduil’s gut that she hasn’t felt in a long, long time, and she _stares_ at the man until his gaze lowers appropriately. It isn’t until she’s free to examine the rest of him, away from the distraction of his eyes, that she realizes: “This is the one that slew the dragon.”

It isn’t a question but a statement. The man himself makes no move, despite his clear bravery and skill with a bow. Thranduil’s always enjoyed a bit of a bite to her omegas, and now that she really _looks_ at him, the strength is evident. Perhaps this one could bear her bruises and marks without crumbling, though she would still like a chance to see him writhe and beg. 

The Master’s dodgy follower mutters something to him, and Thranduil makes an effort not to listen; the toady’s voice is grating. So is the Master’s, but she still must listen when he nervously says, “Bard, My Lady, but if he isn’t to your liking, I’m sure we can find—”

“He’s the only one to my liking,” Thranduil interjects, cutting the Master right off. Then she lifts one hand to wave, signaling that they’re done here. She’s made her choice. She lifts her chin and announces for all to hear, “I will have this one.” _Bard_. A strange name, but it will do. His head lifts slightly with her announcement, though his eyes stay down. Submissive, but proud. Though his restraint is admirable, she can still see the desire that runs through him: the smallest of shivers, barely repressed. She can smell his arousal growing in the air: he wants her, too. But that doesn’t surprise her. She is, after all, the grandest alpha any mortal could hope for—perhaps the most beautiful in all of Middle Earth.

Still, as soon as the other men of Dale have shuffled out behind their greedy master, Thranduil’s own guards in their wake, she asks in a quiet drawl, “Will this be suitable to you, Bard?” Despite her confidence, she has no wish to take an omega that doesn’t want her back. 

She isn’t at all surprised when Bard answers, “I’d be honoured.” His voice is deep, pleasing, perhaps a tad flinty. The tent flap has gone still behind the backs of her guards, giving them privacy. Through the dulled starlight of the fabric and the low light of the lanterns, Thranduil eyes her prize.

Then she darts a hand out, quick as lightning, and makes a fist in his hair. Bard gasps, his mouth opening in surprise, but she’s jerked him forward a second later, claiming his mouth. His lips are a little chapped, a little stale, but she enjoys sinking her teeth into them nonetheless, and it’s surprisingly easy to stick her tongue down his silken throat. She kisses him hard, unforgiving, holding him in by his hair. Bard kisses her back as soon as he’s regained himself, hardly tentative but still knowing of his place. He lets her dominate him, and she’s merciless with her roving teeth and tongue: she maps and devours every part of him, until she’s memorized the shape of his mouth and found it to her liking. 

She doesn’t quite pull away from his face at once. Instead, she trails her teeth down his chin, nipping at his jaw, digging in to leave little grooves that makes him growl, feral, in the back of his throat. But he doesn’t turn away. He lets her brand him, stake her claim right for all to see. When she rips away, his skin is left raw red and wet, and she licks her lips in hunger: he wears it well. She made a good choice. “Bard,” she purrs, just to feel the name roll off her tongue.

It seems... suitable. Her fingers are still in his hair, and she pets it absently while she decides where to take him. She wishes they were back in her kingdom, so she could shove him against one of the wooden pillars and fuck him right into the trunk of an old tree. Instead, she tosses him aside—he’s heavy and strong, but falls like a rag doll under her superior power. He hits the floor on his side, hissing as his elbow smashes along the rug she’s had laid over the stone. He lifts onto his side to look up at her, but doesn’t get up any further. He waits for permission, and she has half a mind to tell him _good boy_ and pet his head.

When she lowers over him, the ends of her pale hair drift along his chest. He lifts one hand to brush his thicker fingers through it, his face momentarily hazy, almost in awe. She feels a flicker of pride—glad that her lover should find her looks pleasing. As he entwines his hand in her hair, she settles her hips over his, her thighs spread. She rolls him onto his back and sits on his lap, rolling her crotch once into his. He hisses, teeth gritting suddenly, and she does it again, tossing her head back so her hair falls along her shoulders and slithers back down her chest. Her silver robes have a way of hiding her body, but it clings to her skins more as she arches for him, poised and ready to use every bit of her curves. She likes the feel of him beneath her, especially the hard jut of his cock that rises so readily to meet her folds. As she grows used to grinding into him, he lifts his hands to hold her hips, and she allows him that, if only because he looks so very hungry for her, and being wanted is its own aphrodisiac. 

Every man wants Thranduil, of course. But few rouse her interest enough to have it. Bard proves himself worthy by the way he obediently lies still for her, yet holds onto her, steadying her, eyeing her in respectful desire. He could’ve been a leader, she thinks, with that security and strength, yet his pheromones mark him as _prey_ to be eaten, and Thranduil eagerly drinks it in. 

When the curiosity is too much for her, she reaches down and slips his belt through the loop, pulling the cheap leather easily aside. Then her hands dip below the hem of his trousers, pleased to find nothing beneath but worn skin and coarse hair. Her fingers wrap around his shaft, hard as a rock in her hands. She pulls it out into the air, dragging his large balls with it. Bard makes a mewling noise but doesn’t protest. He stays clinging to her waist as she eyes his thick cock, her fingers tracing the curve and the subtle veins. It’s a ruddy, darkish colour, and she draws up it to peel back the foreskin, enjoying the exposed, pink head. Not the most beautiful thing, perhaps. But certainly handsome, in its own way. It pulses with life in her hands, and Thranduil decides she would definitely like to swallow it up. And she gets the distinct impression that Bard knows how to use it, too.

Before she gets there, she pushes off his coat. He lifts up on his elbows to let her shuffle it off, and she strips away his shirt after it, leaving the taut lines of his stomach, hardened though thicker than an elf’s. She runs her palms appreciatively across his pecs, rifling through the dark smattering of hair. He plucks his own gloves off his hands without asking her, stripped down to just the trousers, though she plans to get a look at his legs and backside soon enough. She imagines she’ll enjoy Bard from every angle. When she draws up to sit straight again, she purrs, “Very nice.”

“Glad to please, My Lady,” Bard breathes. He sounds a little husky as well. His own compliments are all over his face; he looks like he’s never seen anything so magnificent, and she still has all her clothes on. 

As she slithers back up to her feet, she announces, “It’s time to put you to work.” She means it to sound like a test, but her voice doesn’t come out as that, more so as bristling with anticipation. She walks across the rug to the wooden chair she’s brought with her—a makeshift throne away from home. As she sits down, she spreads her legs, leaning her head elegantly back along the wood.

Bard gives her a burning look, then rolls abruptly over, lifting to all fours. He doesn’t bother to tuck his cock back into his trousers. He crawls to her, his muscles rippling beneath his skin, and all she can think of is scrubbing them off in a nice, hot bath, before she laves her tongue over every part of him. He comes to sit right between her legs, his hands slowly reaching for her ankles. She nods for permission. 

He starts to lift her robes. They’re thin, light. He bunches them up her legs, and for once, she’s forgone tights—Bard’s work-calloused hands trail along her smooth, bare skin. He pushes her robes up until they’re strewn across her lap, and she shifts her rear forward in her chair. He takes a moment to observe her when he’s done, and Thranduil shifts her chin into one hand, the other draped along the armrest. Bard looks up at her again, then hooks his thumbs into the sides of her white, silk panties. 

He draws them slowly down her thighs, just enough that he can push his chin around them, and then Thranduil has to toss her head back against her chair and _moan_.

He _is_ good. His hot breath ghosts over the valley between her legs, his hair tickling her sides, and he presses a firm, soft kiss against the tip of her pussy. She has to gather her own robes a bit higher, wanting to see more of his face. He kisses her again, harder, and then his tongue slips out to run down the pink mound poking out of her pussy, right down to the bottom, where he swirls it to swipe back up, lapping along the way. At the top, he pokes the tip of his tongue in between her lips, curling it around to lap at the peak of her clit, and Thranduil shudders, one hand dropping to hold his head. 

From there, Bard begins a serious of licks and suction that show off his skill. He varies it up constantly, not simply wetting her but _tasting_ her, writhing his tongue inside her and filling her properly, working her body in a way that even most elves have yet to learn. There’s an eagerness behind it, too, but Bard isn’t young and inexperienced; he’s steady, sturdy and solid, passionate but controlled. She finds herself unconsciously petting through his hair, encouraging him. She doesn’t once have to hold him down. He never comes up for air. Bard eats her out like she’s his favourite meal, and it becomes a struggle for Thranduil not to surrender to the pleasure. She forces herself to keep her eyes open, watching him as she arches forward in her chair—his whole body is leaning into hers, focused on his task. There’s something about the heft of his shoulders, broader than an elf’s, that she finds particularly intoxicating, and even more so, the determination on his face. He’s luxurious, but not languid—he could keep her on her toes. The deeper Bard fucks her with his tongue, the more Thranduil _wants_ him, until her mind is running over just where she’ll keep him in the palace—perhaps she’ll clear out her old harem and give him the whole chambers to himself, or better yet, perhaps she’ll keep him directly in her bed.

Thranduil’s nearly humping his face by the end of it. If she were any younger, she probably would be. Bard’s mouth is simply exquisite, rough but excellent, and Thranduil rides it to a surprisingly close finish—she hasn’t been so stimulated in years. Bard laps at her, sucks at her, even nips at her folds, grinding his face harder and harder into her, until she’s almost writhing in his grasp and her breath is heavy. Her face scrunches up, and she can feel the heat pooling in her, the tightening of her stomach—then she falls forward, draping over him to _scream_ , and Bard shoves his tongue as far inside her as he can, drinking in her release.

The crude sound of her juices squirting into Bard’s mouth is quickly dwarfed by his own gulps. She can feel him swallowing around her, lapping up every last drop to take down his throat. Thranduil stays draped over him for a few delicious moments, while Bard drinks from her pussy, until the only wetness inside her is from his saliva. 

Then she straightens back out, feeling pleasantly light and warm, and she tugs at his hair. Bard pushes to stand on slightly shaking knees. He’s still hard, but she needs a moment, if not to recover than to appreciate him. Grinning, he bends down, brushing his lips over her cheek for a chaste kiss. Though he doesn’t presume to touch her mouth with his dirty lips, she turns for a proper kiss; she’s never minded the taste of her own body. Bard kisses her back, until she has to push him away. 

She stares at him, all of him, shirtless and exposed, breath coming fast from pleasing her. She can’t help but muse aloud, “Despite your mortality... I think I’ll be keeping you.” Bard’s lips twitch in a smile, maybe a smirk. Thranduil’s definitely smirking, and as her eyes fall to his cock, she purrs, “Perhaps I will even ask Legolas if he would like a sibling.”

“I already have three little ones,” Bard says, impressively confident. Perhaps it should worry Thranduil, taking on such a burden, but for some reason, she finds it oddly fitting: he’s protective, responsible, and caring on all fronts. She finds her smirk growing.

“So you’re very fertile. I like that.” Bard chuckles. 

Thranduil reaches for his hand, pulling him down into her lap, where she scoops him up to pet him and perhaps cuddle a bit before she’s ready to use his cock.


End file.
